Take A Giant Step
by EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: Dreams and hard work are what build everything. But when one man's hard work and dreams are another man's poison, the most trustworthy test of friendship is whether or not one will drink that poison.


_**A/N: Yes, I know on my profile it says I'm taking a hiatus, but I figured that I might as well post this. **_

"Micky! Mail!" Peter called, galloping full speed into the bedroom, a hobby horse between his legs. He flung an envelope at the drummer, who was sitting on his bed, attempting to make an effective drum out of one of Davy's tambourines and failing miserably.

"Thanks." He replied, looking up, but the blonde was already gone, being the "Pony Express" for the rest of the household.

Micky shook his head. Peter could be so funny sometimes…

Expecting that it was nothing more than a letter from his sister, he was about to carelessly rip open the envelope when he saw the return address.

His breath caught. The envelope was so thin… wasn't that usually a bad sign?

He solemnly walked over to his dresser, opened the top drawer, his junk drawer, and began pawing through the seemingly endless piles of papers, non-working pens, bouncy balls, and just… well, _junk_, trying to locate his letter opener. He eventually found the tarnished silver implement under the stamp collection he'd started but never maintained.

He carried the tool back to his bed, the point aimed at the ceiling, the way they always tell you _never_ to carry scissors in school.

The drummer sat down once again, picking up the envelope and poising the letter opener in his shaking hand.

The suspense was building. His stomach was churning overtime, and severe pressure had begun to build up in his temples.

If the news was good, he would be overjoyed, and laugh at all the worrying he had done. It would make every night he'd stayed up late, writing, tweaking, and then retyping on his old Oliver worth it.

But if it was bad, well, he'd never forgive himself. Anytime he wanted to try something new, he'd always remind himself of how much he'd put into this, but that it had all been a labor in vain because he wasn't sufficient.

The contents of this envelope would determine whether his dreams would be fulfilled or discarded. They would officially ascertain whether he was a success or a failure.

_Well, you might as well go ahead and open it Micky. The amount of time you wait won't change the results._

He took a breath and closed his eyes. The letter opener stabbed the left side of the envelope and began gliding across. The paper started to tear…

"Micky?"

The voice of the drummer's Texan roommate jerked him back to reality. His eyes shot open and he swiveled his head towards the doorway.

"What?"

"I said, we're going to the beach, and we want to know if you're coming with us."

Micky closed his eyes again and quickly surveyed his options.

On the one hand, going to the beach with them would drastically increase the suspense that was already close to killing him because he had absolutely no idea how long they would be there.

On the other hand, having a little fun with the others might relieve some of the tension he was feeling at the moment.

No, he'd better stay here and get it over with. Then, if the news was terrible, the others wouldn't see him crying and making a darn fool out of himself.

"No, I'll stay and hold down the fort here."

"Okay. Just let me grab my swim trunks and I'll be out of your way." It almost surprised Micky how Mike could sense that he wanted to be left alone. Sometimes his roommates seemed to be so numb to the fact that he wasn't just a clown and that he had feelings just like them…

As soon as Mike exited the room, the drummer closed his eyes again and continued to drag the letter opener across the envelope's top.

"Micky, where's my striped shirt? I just _know_ you had it last."

He reluctantly reopened his eyes and looked at the English boy standing on the threshold.

"What do you need a shirt for?"

"What do I usually need a shirt for?"

"Aw, c'mon Davy. Admit it. Chicks are _obsessed_ with that chest of yours." The shorter percussionist good-naturedly rolled his eyes and, knowing he wasn't going to get an answer, sauntered out, closing the door behind him.

Micky gazed at cut he'd already made on the envelope, which was maybe two-thirds of the way across the top.

_Well, I guess I might as well finish what I started._

But before Micky could close his eyes again, Peter burst through the door. The drummer glared at his reproachfully.

"Have you ever heard of knocking?"

The guitarist evidently hadn't heard or had ignored the comment, because he instead of answering he just began talking a mile a minute.

"Micky, what happened in Tuscaloosa when we were a duo? I wanted to tell the others the story but I don't remember what happened so could you tell me, please?"

Micky gaped at the blonde in confusion for a moment before saying, "Pete, we were never in Tuscaloosa."

"We weren't?" Peter's shoulders sagged. "But Mike and Davy always have such… exciting stories about their duo days. Why don't we?"

Micky held back a snicker. "You call almost getting booked for disturbing the public peace by playing "Papa Gene's Blues" on the mayor's rooftop exciting? Especially when he requested it? How about when we got involved in that gold smuggling scheme?"

"They've already heard that one." The guitarist responded glumly.

Desperate to get Peter out of the room, he said, "Look, Pete, I'll tell you what. You make up a story, and if they question it, I'll say it's true."

The drummer almost expected him to put up a fight, and though Peter looked a little surprised, he just mumbled, "Okay." and left.

So he wouldn't be interrupted yet again by one of his band mates, Micky waited a little while until he heard the door slam downstairs before he got back to opening the letter. This time he didn't even bother to close his eyes and just pulled the letter opener across the rest of the way as fast as possible.

His hands shook as he removed the paper from the envelope. They became increasingly unsteady the entire time he was unfolding it and were trembling so much by that at the point which it was completely open he was still unable to see the words because the motion of his hands blurred them so.

Direly wanting to know the outcome, and knowing his hands weren't going to become any steadier, he dropped it onto the bed.

Reading the first lines, he gasped.


End file.
